I forgot the reason I liked this week was that I wrote my thank-you letters ad got caught up on the tall ends of Christmas. But I’m sick. I forget when I’m in bed. I can still sleep.

My aches and pains were not organic as they are now. They were annoying depressing nagging dragging and constant but I could think. Whatever character i was playing in my sleep was active and making Plans. Last night/this morning she was the queen of a medieval forest village and she invented blood transfusions to help some of her men get stronger. So when she woke she was all set to do some real work. Then she got out of bed. It took her over an hour struggling with a mop trying to clean a bit of floor. The mop was TIRED and it ACHED.

HEY, that’s me and it hurts.

I have always liked the week between Christmas and NewYear’s, although this week has been tougher than most, with the messy aftermath of the storms . I have no lost luggage to worry about but I do have lost friends, I fear, for my dreadful neglect and then an unavoidable, unforgivable inability to make up for squandered time. It’s something else I must learn: new, different estimates on how much time a given task is going to take me to complete. It takes longer now, and always will, not just recovery time which has been difficult to acknowledge and adjust to, but, as I realize, actual performance time.

This week of being sick inept and helpless has provided me with some understanding, then tolerance, acceptance and even pleasure as I succumbed to my weakness. I am alone again, completely. No one is going to blow a whistle on me. If I have to stop to catch my breath, or sit down, or even lie down, no one is going to notice or care. Time out has become a surprising relief I don’t have to apologize for.

Now I have a list of things i must do and a limbo day to get them done. Lots of time. No whistles.

Count your blessings.

Later, maybe.